Page 23 of Game Misconduct
“Tell me,” he says softly, “is this really about building the franchise? Or is it about proving you’re more than your father’s shadow?”
I stiffen. That line isn’t just strategy—it’s personal. And it lands like a blade.
The image of Maddox flashes—sweat slicking his skin, eyes daring me to flinch.
You ever feel like you’re not enough?
I grit my teeth.
“If you have a concern about my leadership,” I say, turning the chair to face him, head held high, “take it to the board.”
Dean meets my gaze, satisfied he’s pushed my buttons. “They’re already watching.”
He walks out without another word, leaving the room colder than when he entered.
The door clicks shut behind him, soft as a threat.
I don’t move. Not at first.
With my hands shaking, I just sit there, staring at the folder like it might bite.
Then I exhale. Once. Twice. Three times.
When I finally stand, my legs are unsteady. I gather the folder and force my spine straight, letting the soles of my shoes ring sharp against the hardwood as I leave.
I will not be seen unraveling.
Not by Dean. Not by anyone.
The elevator ride is quiet. My reflection stares back from the mirrored walls—perfect hair, flawless makeup, face locked down. But my stomach churns, my chest tight with something too big to contain.
I make it to my office before the first tear threatens. Once inside my sanctuary, I shut the door with more force than necessary and lean against it, eyes closed.
The ache in my chest is a live wire. I want to scream. Or cry. Or break something, anything, just to feel the aftermath.
I sink into my chair like my bones forgot how to hold me. The darkness and all its friends presses in, thick and heavy.
Turning on the desk lamp, low and warm, I boot up my laptop with hands that still tremble.
There’s too much to do. Too much to prove. Too much riding on one signature I forced out of a man who looks at me like I’m both a threat and a promise.
Opening a fresh PowerPoint, I get down to work, the anxiety ebbing from my body as I type.
Asset Analysis: Lasker, M.
The cursor blinks at me for half a second before I start typing headers with ruthless precision:
Strengths.
Weaknesses.
